


i am home (when i'm with you)

by the human eyes emoji (nicole_writes)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: "Thank God We're Alive Sex", Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Mentioned Violence and Character Death, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Sylvain Jose Gautier, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, but add a heaping of drama and sexual tension, director's cut, it's love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29328012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/the%20human%20eyes%20emoji
Summary: Taking refuge in a cabin for the night, there is nothing to stop the tension from bubbling between Sylvain and Ingrid on the heels of tragedy.—an excerpt from"We Carry On"- act v. home
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	i am home (when i'm with you)

**Author's Note:**

> In which it took me 7 attempts to get a version of this scene that was non-explicit enough so I compiled the first six versions with the final cut plus some extra ~spice~ to bring you this Director's Cut from my contribution to the Sylvgrid Big Bang, ["We Carry On"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28554354/chapters/69974784). 
> 
> This scene is a snippet from Act V. Home. It won't make a lot of sense out of context, but to briefly summarize:  
> \- it's the zombie apocalypse (50 years after it started to be exact)  
> \- sylvain and ingrid fled a destroyed fhirdiad and are heading to Garreg Mach  
> \- they just barely escaped an attack by a group of nefarious raiders who killed many of their friends  
> \- ingrid was shot sometime during all of this (she's mostly healed at the time of this piece)  
> \- basically they're in love but the trauma of the situation and their own denial is keeping this to "thank god we're alive" sex
> 
> Anyway, if you want to yell at me on Twitter (OR SEE THE FACT THAT I HAD MY BIG BANG PRINTED INTO AN ACTUAL BOOK), you can [check me out here](https://twitter.com/nicolewrites37).

A beautiful smile curls up her lips and in the faint glow of the firelight, Sylvain is suddenly forced to rethink his conversation with Hilda. Ingrid looks beautiful here. She’s wearing ill-fitting clothing and her face is dirty and her hair is choppy and short and she’s still the most beautiful person that Sylvain has ever seen. 

_Because_ _of course he is in love with Ingrid. Probably always has been._

“Thank you,” Ingrid says. 

He nods. “Yeah. Just, try not—” _to get far from me_ “—to get grabbed again.” _Don’t go getting grabbed by anyone that isn’t me. Don’t leave my sight. Don’t leave me behind. Don’t tell me that you don’t feel the same about me._

Silence stretches between them. It feels staggering. His adrenaline is fading and it finally reminds him of the post-encounter safety training drilled into his head: they haven’t checked for bites. Sylvain pats along his own arms, probing fingers searching for bitten-through fabric or any wounds. Ingrid frowns, rising to her feet. She visibly still favours her left side but doesn’t seem worried about herself, reaching for him instead. 

“You have to stop being reckless,” she mutters, reaching for his jacket and dragging the zipper down until he shrugs out of it.

Ingrid leans in, her hands patting across his chest before her arms slide around him as she checks his sides and back. Her fingers snag in the material of his sweater in her haste and Sylvain grabs her arms, stilling her. Eyes locked with hers, he glides his hands up her arms to her shoulders and then lets his fingers gently probe at her neck and back, returning the favour. 

The moment is painfully intimate. His chest rises and falls against her. She’s very close to him. Sylvain’s tongue feels like lead and his throat is like sandpaper when he tries to swallow. His response to her scolding gets stuck halfway out of his mouth. 

His hands stop exploring, catching on her elbows. He grips her arms to hold her still as her gaze slides up to his. She’s still frowning, waiting for him to reply.

“If you’re in danger, I make no promises,” he retorts, finally forcing the words out. 

Ingrid tugs her arm free of his grip. Her hand fists in the front of his shirt, her frowning twisting into a full scowl. “Don’t _do_ that, Sylvain! Don’t act like your life is worth less than mine!”  
  
“Isn’t it?” he rebuffs. “I’m the reason that Miklan even pursued us here. I’m the reason those people are dead and I’m the reason they even had to bring in the hoard in the first place. Failnaught will never be a safe space again and it’s my fault.” His fingers dig into her waist as he pulls her closer. “And I won’t apologize for saving you because I’m not sorry!”

“You can’t just say that,” Ingrid protests. 

“I will,” he promises. “I’ll keep doing it.”

“If you don’t want me to get hurt,” she points out, growing incensed, “then don’t take stupid risks!”

He frowns, leaning into her. “We’re both alive, Ingrid!”

“This time! Who knows what will happen the next time you throw yourself into a hoard of Infected to keep them from getting to me! What if you get bit, Sylvain? What am I supposed to do then?”

“You shoot me and you move on, just like the training says,” he responds immediately. 

“Would you do the same for me?” she asks. 

He recoils, leaning away from her before he is drawn right back into her space. “No!” His ire drains away with the realization so quickly that he feels lightheaded. He hesitates. “I couldn’t.” 

She punches him in the shoulder. “Then don’t you _fucking dare_ ask me to do the same!”

“I have to. I need to,” he confesses. 

Ingrid yanks on him until he stumbles and caves to her, their lips crashing together. Sylvain’s hands tighten on her jacket as he kisses her back. She parts her lips to him, her hands scratching at the material of his sweater. 

She struggles with it for a moment before she jerks it up, rolling it halfway up his torso. A groan breaks into a growl in his throat the moment she touches him. Sylvain pushes her back, lifting her partly off her feet until her back meets the wall of the cabin. Whatever coherent thoughts he had had before she kissed him are gone, replaced by the urge to be as close to her and to make her feel as protected as possible. He undoes her coat and Ingrid twists as she struggles to keep kissing him and simultaneously shrug it off. 

Sylvain breaks the contact of their lips so that they can breathe, but he doesn’t step away from her, still crowding her against the wall. In the dim firelight, Ingrid’s eyes are glowing with want and he pushes aside every rational thought he has and clings to the string in his chest that glows when she touches him. It’s the part of him that is just grateful to be alive—the part of him that is grateful to touch her and hold her because she is with him and she is alive and he is in love with her. 

He kisses the side of her jaw and Ingrid gasps. Sylvain, determined to get her to make that sound again, kisses up her face until he reaches her ear. Ingrid hums as he drags his teeth over it, lolling her head away from him. His hands twist into the material of her sweater and shirt as he trails his lips down, sucking hard kisses into the side of her neck. 

He kisses down her neck and bites lightly at her shirt’s collar. Her breath hitches. In one motion, he slides his hands underneath her wool shirt to rest on the warm skin of her sides and back. Ingrid whines, pulling on his shirt in return. 

He leans away from her just enough to see her eyes blink open. Her gaze is heavy with lust and Sylvain wants nothing more than to pin her to the wall of the cabin and continue the frantic pace that they are proceeding at, but he needs her to be sure. 

“Ingrid,” he whispers. 

She shivers at the low tone of his voice, but then she trails her hand down to grab the neck of his shirt and she pulls. “I’m sure,” she says before he can ask. 

His whole body trembles at her words. Somehow, he wishes she had said stop. He wants her to push him away and remark the line between them that has friends on one side and _something more_ on the other. He wishes she would draw the line—carve it into his chest—so that he doesn’t cross it, blurring it until there’s nothing between them but hurried breaths and gasps. 

But she doesn’t and Sylvain is a fool. This adrenaline pumping through his veins is entirely different from the salty-tasting panic from the mall or the metallic tang of blood as they hid from the Clicker. His heart races when her breath hitches and she leans into him. The magnetic pull of _Ingrid_ and _being alive_ and _being alive with Ingrid_ renders him spineless.

She takes advantage of his distraction to slide her hands down and start pulling his own sweater up over his head. Sylvain withdraws his hands and pushes his hands through the sleeves. Ingrid then yanks it up, forcing it up over his head. Sylvain shivers as his skin is bared to the cool air and then Ingrid pulls him back in, kissing him again. 

One of her hands glides down across his bare chest and Sylvain openly shivers into her touch. Her other hand cups the back of his head and Sylvain goes back to his previous efforts, rolling her shirt up slowly as he tries to slow the pounding of his heart beneath her palm. Every action since their lips first met has been hurried and panicked and Sylvain does not want it to be.

He goes slower, lessening the urgency of the action, and he rubs his thumbs and palms against her sides as he works the shirt up. Ingrid deepens the kiss again and Sylvain pushes her more firmly against the wall. 

He wants to feel alive. He wants to make her feel alive. Even if it’s just tonight–one night recklessly spent holding her to him–he wants her to feel him. Even if she is just clinging to him because he is the only one left.

He holds her against him, kissing her until neither of them can breathe. Ingrid gasps, her body surging against his as she draws in a desperate lungful of air. Sylvain kisses her jaw and the hand on his chest rises up, gripping his shoulder and then the hair at the back of his neck. His mind is humming at her closeness and he drags his nose, featherlight, against the curve of her neck as he exhales shakily. 

“Ingrid,” he whispers. His lips linger against her skin and her chest heaves, pushing against his.

Her eyes, closed sometime during the shedding of sweaters and shirts, flicker open, half-lidded and heavy in the firelight. “Sylvain,” she murmurs. There’s a raw edge to her voice. It catches Sylvain’s fluttering heart and puts it in her hands. 

He rests his forehead against her collarbone, trembling. “What do you want?” His voice is nothing more than a low rumble in his chest.

Her right hand brushes up across his scalp, combing his hair through her fingers as she nudges his head up, locking their eyes again. Her lips are flushed and parted and Sylvain is sure that there has never been anything more beautiful than the sight before him.

The sound of the fire behind them fades to nothing but a hollow hum. This close, he feels like he’s trapped in her space. They both smell like sweat and dirt and even a bit like the metallic tang of blood, but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest—these are things that he associates with surviving. Holding her green-eyed gaze, Sylvain has to remind himself to breathe. The intimacy of the moment feels stifling. 

Her left hand slides down to the top of his pants. She slides three fingers under his waistband and catches his gaze questioningly. Sylvain’s breath shudders and he leans forward, flattening his hips against her so that she can feel his response. Her back arches and her lips, swollen from the force of their kisses, part. Her fingers fumble, undoing the top button of his pants.

Sylvain catches her hand when it trembles, holding it in place. The hand in his hair drops down, wavering, and he snags it too. His face is surely red and his eyelids feel heavy as he leans into her and raises her hand to his mouth, kissing the inside of her palm.

“I want you,” Ingrid says. The line gets blurrier. Her eyes flicker with something darker. 

Sylvain guides the tips of her fingers over his bottom lip, not daring to break eye contact. “Then let me,” he says quietly. 

Ingrid’s breath hitches when he lifts her up. Sylvain is strong enough and lost in her enough that she feels as light as a feather as he carefully lays her down on the bed. He’s careful with her injured leg as he sets her down. He kneels next to her, hovering until she gets the hint and crawls backwards until she’s lying flat on the bed. Sylvain nearly hesitates, but Ingrid hooks two fingers in a belt loop and pulls him after her. He slides over, trapping her between his arms and uses his knees to nudge her legs apart.

Ingrid’s hand tangles in his hair again and he lets her guide him down to her collarbone. She is giving him permission and he is going to take it. His tongue trails along her neck until she squirms underneath him, letting out a breathy whimper. He smirks into her skin and sinks down slowly, trailing kisses down to the curve of her chest. He slips a hand behind her back to unclasp her bra and tugs it away when it comes loose. 

Her body tenses a bit then, as if she’s uncertain, so Sylvain pauses, pressing a slower kiss just to the top of the swell of her breasts. 

“You’re beautiful, Ingrid,” he whispers. His words reassure her enough that her back flattens back down against the bed and her fingers loosen their vice grip on his hair. 

Ingrid gives a trembling sigh as he continues his path, kissing the side of her breast. He pauses there, sucking lightly until her body jerks. He chuckles and hums into her skin.

“So beautiful.”

“Sylvain,” she murmurs faintly as he continues to let his mouth stray across her chest. Her nails dig into his scalp and her other hand cups the back of his neck, indenting into the skin of his upper back. 

His name turns into a louder gasp—one that he hears clearly over the crackle of the fire—when he trails his mouth down her stomach, paying appreciative attention to her toned stomach. He palms across her hips until he finds the drawstring for her pants. He holds eye contact with her as he unfastens the tie and eases the fabric over her hips. 

Ingrid wets her lips and lifts her hips just enough to signal for him to keep going. Sylvain is careful of her injured leg as he slowly slips her pants off, giving her enough space to push them off and kick them off the side of the bed. He sets his attention to her underwear next, methodical in how he pulls it out of the way until she’s bare beneath him. 

Her cheeks are bright red now and Sylvain chuckles again. “Don’t worry,” he assures, “you’re still gorgeous.” His fingertips walk down her hipbones towards the tops of her thighs. “Just tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

He lowers his head, trailing a kiss across her hip and down to the inside of her thigh. Ingrid squirms, but Sylvain just slides his hands across, pinning her legs open. He watches her, grinning, and slowly leans in, pressing a slow kiss to the peak of her thighs. 

Ingrid’s face screws up and her back arches immediately, a moan slipping from her lips. Sylvain kisses again, more firmly, and Ingrid tugs at his hair in response. He lingers there, rolling the bud of her clit as she whines. 

“Sylvain—” she tries, but breaks off moaning when he lifts a hand and rubs the tips of two fingers back. 

He presses one in as he focuses his mouth on her clit, nipping and sucking. Ingrid jerks underneath him and he slides his hand back, relishing in the way that she gasps. He works her with his hands and with his mouth, teasing and kissing and stroking until her body seizes and she comes, gasping his name and writhing against the cabin’s faded sheets. 

He rests his cheek against her leg as she trembles and slowly comes down. Once Ingrid’s breathing slows, he carefully reaches up and detangles her fingers from his hair. He winds his fingers into hers and pulls her hand around to his face, lightly kissing the back of her hand. 

Ingrid huffs and pulls her hand free. She pulls on his shoulder and then his upper arm. Sylvain pauses, tilting his head to stare at her. 

“Ing?”

“Come here,” she murmurs.

He goes, shifting to drape himself along her non-injured side, propping up on his elbow. Ingrid’s hand skirts up his arm and across his chest, flirting lightly against his skin. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

She nods. She cups his cheek lightly. “Okay,” she breathes back.

Sylvain leans in and kisses her. “Good. Now, Ing,” he pauses to slip one hand between her legs again, “should I stop?” 

Her thighs close around his hand and her lips press together, determined. She reaches for his waistband, trying to drag his pants down over his hips. 

“No,” she says. 

She has his pants wrestled down over his hips when he finally stops trying to tease her, slipping his hand free with a last circle around her clit. He snatches her hands away from his pants, pressing them back against the mattress as he rolls on top of her again. Sylvain sits back just long enough to kick his pants and underwear down. 

Ingrid pushes up onto her elbows, her eyes trailing down over his stomach to where he is clearly worked up. Her chest heaves and her eyes darken. “Sylvain.”

He all but surges down to meet her, nearly knocking her flat onto her back again as he kisses her furiously. Ingrid moans into the kiss, locking one arm around his neck as she falls back. Her other hand drifts down, finding a loose grip around him. Sylvain groans, breaking from her lips to curse under his breath. 

Ingrid laughs breathily underneath him and her hand strokes slowly over him, obviously paying him back from the teasing he had made her endure. Sylvain twists his head, biting the side of her neck and she gasps, jerking her knees up in response.

The action causes her to wince and Sylvain immediately stops, knocking her hand aside and leaning back. He looks down at her, worried, and frowns. He wants to keep going. He wants her more than he has ever wanted anyone before, but he refuses to hurt her. 

“Wait, Ingrid,” he says. His voice is breathy and tight in a way that he hardly ever hears himself sound. She has stolen something from him tonight. He never wants to take it back.

“Sylvain,” she repeats. Some twisted part of him wishes that she would never stop saying his name. Her expression is fierce and he almost gives into her without another word.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes.

She shakes her head. Her hand plays along the edge of his face, tingling where they graze his jaw. “Sylvain, I want this.”

The commotion in his head—the love, the adoration, the confusion, and the roiling self-hatred—is not enough to drown out her words. She is sure. The defiance in her gaze is going to burn him alive.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he says. He tries to use his words to rebuild the wall between them, but the thread in his chest that ties his heart to hers is already too bright. He is already giving in to her.

He wants to say that it’s too unsafe for them to do this, but he also wants Ingrid. Desperately. The thread in him pulls him down and he seals their lips together again, immediately pressing his tongue into her mouth as he rolls his hips against hers. Ingrid mumbles something unintelligible, curling her arms around him as she kisses him back.

Sylvain shifts, slotting his hips down against hers and then pauses, breaking the kiss. Using a light touch, he brushes aside a newly-chopped lock of her hair. He gives her a wobbly smile and her hips shift underneath him, the intention clear behind her motion.

“I want you, Sylvain,” she urges.

He nods and lowers himself against her. Carefully, he pushes forward. He forces himself to move at an agonizingly slow pace, pressing in until their hips are flush together. Ingrid pants beneath him, her hands flexing across his back as she adjusts to the sensation. Sylvain presses his forehead against her shoulder, exhaling shakily.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid gasps out. She tugs lightly on his hair, nudging his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks into her skin. He follows the words with a couple of feathery kisses and a shallow roll of his hips.

Ingrid whines, tightening her grip on him. “Y-yes,” she breathes.

Sylvain braces himself and rocks his hips back. Ingrid makes a faint noise, but he doesn’t let it deter him this time, thrusting back into her at the same brutally slow pace. Her body is tight and hot and Sylvain nearly loses his shit immediately. It’s only the half-covered face of pleasure that Ingrid makes that helps him keep control.

He carefully speeds up the pace at which he drives into her, caressing her hips and legs. He hitches her good leg over his hip and she mewls at the change of angle it gives. He grunts and thrusts again and she moans louder.

He hunches against her, biting her shoulder as their hips crash together again and again. The way that she moans and rocks into him is driving him crazy. If she was beautiful before, she is radiant now—more beautiful than any god could claim to be.

“Sylvain,” she pants, barely able to form his name.

He recognizes the quiver from the first time she had come tonight, and he hastily adjusts, looping her legs higher as he puts more downward force behind each thrust. She lets out a whimpering moan and her back arches off the bed towards him. He fumbles a hand between them, rubbing hard at her clit until she cries out loudly. Her body convulses against him and Sylvain rips his hips back, twisting to the side as her orgasm takes him beyond his own peak.

He cups a hand against himself as he groans. Ingrid gasps for breath on the bed beside him, one arm thrown over her eyes. Sylvain awkwardly sits up, fumbling for a bunch of tissue from the outside of his bag. He keeps his back to Ingrid as he quickly tidies himself up.

Unsettling anxiety starts to crawl through his bones the longer he keeps his eyes off of her. Before he can turn back, he feels her hand ghost down his back. He steals a look at her. She is still sprawled on the mattress, flushed and gorgeous, but her hand is extended to him. Her green eyes glitter in the firelight.

“Thank you,” she breathes when they make eye contact.

Sylvain nods slowly. He shifts back and presses a light kiss to her forehead. “We should sleep,” he mumbles.

The words _“I love you_ ” bubble up in his chest. He swallows them down as he grabs his boxers from the floor, awkwardly tugging them on. When he faces the bed again, Ingrid is maneuvering herself underneath the faded sheets.

Instinctively, Sylvain crawls in next to her. His body doesn’t even give his mind a moment to catch up as Ingrid’s naked form rolls towards him. She carefully drapes herself across him, cautious of her bad leg, and her breathing almost immediately evens out. Her nose tucks into the crook of his neck and Sylvain loops his arm around her waist to keep her close.

His heart is still racing in his chest when her breathing evens out and he decides that she has fallen asleep. He lingers in the moment, curling his fingers through her short hair. A deep sigh rattles out of his chest and he lightly rubs his thumb across her cheekbone.

Her face wrinkles when he does so, but she doesn’t stir, relaxing into his touch after a moment. He smiles faintly, admiring her soft expression. He wonders, then, how he had ever been stupid enough to mistake his friendship with her—his protectiveness and adoration of her—for _just friendship_.

He had loved her as a kid and, when he thinks about it, he had never stopped. It had been something he had shoved down and denied for Glenn’s sake because Glenn had gotten there first. But, he can’t push it down anymore. Even if she’s just clinging to him because he’s the one here and because of the coiling relief of being alive.

Even if all of this had just been so that she could remind herself she is alive.

The memory of Ingrid, shaking above him and then around him, is imprinted in his brain. He will never forget how she looked tonight.

Her weight against him, curled against his side and radiating warmth, feels right. It makes him think of the nights they had spent in the safehouse in Fhirdiad. They had started the nights on opposite sides of the single bed, but Sylvain had woken up every day, without fail, with Ingrid’s legs tangled in his and their arms wrapped around or reaching for each other.

As much as he wants to let her slumbering form lull him to sleep, he knows that they’ll freeze like this. He edges away from her just enough to toss dirty tissues into the dying fire and he grabs the tie on his bag to pull it closer to the bed. He detaches the bedroll from the bottom and pulls out the blanket, spreading it overtop Ingrid.

He can’t help the way his eyes linger on her. Her cheeks are still pink, even in sleep, and he carefully smooths the blanket out over her. She is so beautiful. She looks peaceful too.

Carefully, Sylvain navigates back under the blankets so that he is next to her. Ingrid makes a displeased noise, still mostly asleep, and blindly grabs for him. She curls over him again and Sylvain buries his nose in her hair.

He smiles faintly and tucks some wayward strands out of her face. He cranes his neck, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. He tugs her a little closer and their bare legs lock together. He worries, for a second, about her bad leg, but Ingrid shows no sign of discomfort, so he lets his exhausted eyes close.

The adrenaline of the day drains away all at once and Sylvain falls asleep to Ingrid’s slow, relaxed breathing and the crackling of the fire beyond them.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want a resolution to this thing, i recommend you read the whole fic. it features beautiful art from my lovely partner Fee in Ch 1 and a _whole lot of juicy zombie AU-typical drama_


End file.
